Fifty years later the verdict
was declared unjust. She
gave him nothing to eat,
instead breathed softly on
him. Doctrine handed down,
tradition handing down from
ancestors to posterity, opinion
or belief in these Italian
immigrants Sacco & Vanzetti
supposed to have divine
authority. At night hid him
in the fire like a burning coal.
The trial in Massachusetts
of the Vietnam War dragged
on. He was committed
to an asylum, convicted of
murder during an attempted
robbery by South Vietnamese
& U.S. forces. 5000 Vietcong
were expelled from Saigon
for sexual offences & the
judge's anti-anarchist pre-
judice. Prolonged controversy
in order to destroy all that
was mortal in him. Nothing
written down. No stay of
execution. Later she would
anoint him with ambrosia.

A nautical triangular sail. Or. A high-standing bonnet. An unusually
tall man. Or. A
horse. Sired by Highflier and who won the Epsom Derby. And. That Sky-scraper
mare
who made Brainworm by Buzzard. An exaggeration. And. A tall tale.
As. My
yellowed yarn can't come well after your sky-scraper of love. Or.
A high-rider of high-
cycles typical of antiquity. Architecturally, a building of many stories.
Especially those
characteristic to. Cosmopolitan conurbations. And. The most American
thing in the
world. For. If the developments of steel and concrete make possible
the construction of
eternally tall buildings, you reside in the penthouse of paradise.
Power is a cabaret cult.
And. Your now-a-days name is Profit. But. I am impeded by your sky-scraper
eyes.
Or. I bide my time in the longer lingers of your penumbra. For. My
world is turning.
And. I beg you to tell me. Who are these men who eternally build?

A
composite of sky. As. Cloud. Arch of the counterfeit heavens. Or.
The firmament.
As. The sky is a careless place to dwell. And. The sky is the natural
habitat of the
unnatural airplane. Put that in your rocket pocket. With. Scraper.
As. Unscrupulous
plunderer. Cat-house fiddler. Blue-blooded barber. For. A bird that
scratches the earthly
soil is banned from the sun-filled skies.

A
body of ribs and reach. And. An edifice of bone and bracket. For.
If the
developments of steel and concrete make possible the construction
of superstructures, it's
the elevator that carries you away. Buildings up to four stories can
be supported by
walls. But. Your skyscraper requires a skeleton of steel. See. Lightning
always strikes
twice in your big city. Your Emerald City. And. There’s hardly
a place in the world
where your pyrotechnic sky-flowers cannot be seen. For. In the morning
when the stars
stop adorning, there are wars. And. When sky-scrapers fall, we shall
have larks.

Accordion

A handheld musical instrument invented by Damian in Vienna. Consisting
of. Folded
bellows to which a button board is attached. Depressed buttons open
the valves and
admit wind over the reeds. Those narrow tongues of metal. Some are
riveted to the
upper board. Some to the lower. Or. A keyboard accordion. The piano
kind of ivory
keys made from the tusks of African elephants. And. If the pitch of
the note depends on
the length of the reeds, your right hand holds the Palace. While your
left manipulates the
Prison. With skill you make a melancholy music in the middle. And.
Three bass keys of
the tonic and dominant chords. You must see that I, too, am trying
to play at your toy.
But. I am all thumbs. Fumbling. For. This time it is I who suffer
from the strange
numbness. Born from the adagio of your decrescendo.

From
accordare. As. To tune an instrument. Or. To play in unison.
The termination of
the word imitates the clarion. As. A shrill sounding trumpet with
a narrow tube used as a
signal in war. And. The sound of war. The crowing of cocks. Or. Carrion.
As. Corpse
or carcass. For. This flesh unfit for food. And. They're playing our
song.

The
frame and tongue are one, as is the case with Jew's Harps. And. The
reeds are
mounted on sideboard, as is the case with concertinas. Having a series
of folds. As. The
lenses on cameras. But. If each button sounds two different notes,
one upon the
inhalation, the other upon the exhalation, you take your show to Vaudeville.
Between
Palace and Prison, you keep your time in tune. A door, skirt, wall,
or window. While I.
See. I am becoming the handless widow at your accordion window. For.
This is the
middle of that without center.

meanwhile,
though plenty
is enough,
subjective is the measure.
earth—as hot outside as inside,
eager—but the demon
enticing—the pale fatty flesh
represents a sacrifice.
yummy—do we have skewers?

Old
School

Modest
results if any after your 25 years—and she,
upright, apparently flourishing, in dainty makeup, tiny earrings.
Rage is what she cannot give of herself of course but she's
disgusted at you—so whatever it is, you do it more. She's
enunciating her worthy sentiments carefully, softly, her
respectable flesh-colored pantyhose around her ankles.

Round
dark fruits and their juices—and you a full-fruit scavenger
of water, of food when hungry, old books,
old school—oh you want it.
Middle class thing didn't quite work out for you.
Now punctuation, wherewithal, basic grooming: these are
other people's hangups, snagged on your wicker basket.

At
night, it is a relief to fall asleep to the hum of an air-conditioning
unit instead of the crackle of small arms fire

If
a big mouth fits, wear it.
But it wears thin, especially across a globe

northern
eye war oven my plaque this often moon
after work-up my roam listing some mosaic
tinting some sturdy team in when off came on

could give a flying fuck about the boundaries, the barbed
walls flung up by far too many schools of poetry from San
Francisco to Iowa City to New York. I, too, love to read
poetry – it saved my life – I don’t want to take up
arms

The stronger case for optimism lies
elsewhere. Corporate retrenchments may
be slowing, and other sources of job loss –
weak overall demand, an expanding trade
deficit – may be ebbing. As companies see

her eyes are misaligned, her mouth is sus-
piciously pursed, her stockings are bunched at
the knees, even the bobby pins on her white
headband have slipped below her eyes. Wearing
identical frocks, the girls are standing so close
that they seem to be joined in one body

He doesn't know where or how to begin. His lines, some
straight, some arced, arched, twisted and turned
around another, abrupt, rude or opaque white, don't
signal the start he desired. But that's something,
finally, desire, which perhaps leads to birth,
to a helpless life crawling, a bubbling, toddling,
skipping, shuffling. Isn't this beginning really an end

8
of Diamonds

We obtain the linearly independent solutions by multiplying

'Stupido cowboy,' groused a postal clerk
who took the extra time to decorate my package

Liberate the real without booking once into the howl. Hits of
cram were flaunting around in the mulch, tight wings booking
like tinny flesh. She could almost fool them on their truth

yet
if I can wage war on this blank page
a pre-emptive strike
removing the dictator from power
then I could stop hating this metaphor

may find the unvarnished view of modern
motherhood a bit unsettling. Just like in
life, the fictional births die often followed
by prolonged depressions, and the stresses
of child rearing can bring shaky marriages

When
the brainwashing machine shifts into high
gear, rhetorical steam sputtering from its seams,
the pounding is remorseless. It plays with our heads;
the bodies just keep piling up. If our words
were wrenches, we might slow the beast down.
But muzzle it? We need to heave our bodies into the uproar

One
says America will give France the go by. Another that France
and Spain will abandon America. A third that Spain will forsakeFrance and America. A fourth that America has the interest of all
Europe against her. A fifth that she will become the greatest manu-
facturing country and thus ruin Europe. A sixth that she will
become a great and ambitious military and naval power, and cones-
quently terrible to Europe

5
of Hearts

But
the water-cooler definition of news is increasingly lame

windows
were now a solid, shimmering gray, which gradually
darkened until lanterns flickered into life all along the corridors

He hunts down the day's dark turned back, days
grown longer, larger. Unwittingly, he dumped the memories
of infinite potential into his best friend's lap, so many now petered
out

potion to clear up her grandson's
cough. She also tucked into a
bowl of dark soup boiled with
snake bone and turtle

A room at
dawn's light,
a stoning
from which she steps aside,
aching of architecture

Two small heads,
one silver frame:
separate lives, yet no palpable
margins, edges to merriment
or misery, blanket, in this photo, swathing
two echoing, elfin smiles

The candles all went out at once. The only light now came from
the silvery ghost, who were drifting about talking seriously to the
prefects, and the enchanted ceilings, which, like the sky outside, was
scattered with stars. What with that, and the whispering that still
.
.
.
The wind was so strong that they staggered sideways as they
walked out into the field. If the crows was cheering, they couldn't
hear it over the fresh rolls of thunder. Rain was splattering over

10
of Spades

Suddenly
there was "Mighty Bright," a hiccough and a burp. Then the
world settled down

the
great power network
mutual deterrence

where
Oedipus kills
an intellectual quest
the solution and combat high in taste

the
pitch of the sound waves equivalent to a B-flat –
57 octaves lower than a middle-C and at a frequency
far deeper than the limits of human hearing – is the
deepest note ever detected from an object in the universe

He
did something stupid. His right foot on the brake (he wasn't
in park), he pushed the accelerator with his left.
The car lurched, stopping just short of the man
as stupid as he. When the accelerator slowed, his mind
raced: he could have flattened his friend

Old
man's breath, short, shallow, a walk to the car
winding him for half an hour. Old man's breasts.
Old man's aching calves. Call him before 1 p.m.
his minds's sharp as it ever was. Then he's exhausted.
His father's soul, he said, is trapped in a dying animal.
It won't make it to Thanksgiving

the
trunk, my fingers stroking the bark, seeking a Braille code,
a clue, a message on how to come back to life after my long
undersnow dormancy. I have survived. I am here. Confused,
screwed up, but here. So, how can I find my way? Is there a
chain saw of the soul, an ax I can take to my memories or
fears? I dig my fingers into the dirt and squeeze. A small clean
part of me waits to warm and burst through the surface

Fastened
to the flight of his remorse
he aspires to defoliate the night.

He
goes against himself in reflected mass
like a furious vulture.

Man
is a continual fall
and a return to his infancy
as well as an asphodel of his phobias.

Man
is the nightmare of God
and vice versa.

The
Absentee

Much
I toil over being
different every day,
different to that of the mirror
where everything is afire
without being able to waste away,
an enormous scar
becomes an echo
and the echo becomes a word
neither said nor written.
This sets back each place
that has taken me unto myself,
but I absently continue
among the others.

To
the Guest of My Own Destiny

A
word in its minuscule reflection
catches the lights that escape
like small tarantulas.

Excessive
whirls
from the lamp in my hand
draws the darkness
that we are.

Locked
by the spume
the evil eye cried.

Beauty
is without
a future in those
of scarce imagination.

I
am joined to myself, delirious
like a glass statue
that is broken in the wind.
So many times I have murdered
the guest of my own destiny. . . .

Love
calms in underneath its oddly balanced division giveth and taketh aside
and yet continues unrestrained at the heart's parlor where'd you inside
its
turbulent realm find undisclosed attributes at its sprain and chime.
This no
other outer in its manifest forms are not yet undecided in their ministry
of the
space provided. Yet where you'd understand another mark left on
the floor by
destiny perhaps an eloquent sigh or some other meter in the mist.
As if
abandoned without hope or pity, some return to life is designated on
the map
of your hand no internal hoax would call your memory enchanted with
itself
and its opening mysteries finds a trail to follow upward into the pineal
and the
flame, no retardant fluxes inner moods then carries them beyond definition
or
limit.

Yet
attainable in remarks and sentences there's no outer to the line it
follows,
in diagonal rooms the light lingers upward into the ceiling's motes
and
fathoms in reverse. The hour of what is spoke is on the docket
for renewal,
and the eloquent stranger finds the latest song inside the spaces left
unmarked
and unattended. Perhaps the signs will themselves be seen for
what they are,
remainders of the force that went ahead or aside or not at all.
The hour on the
wall is still indifferent to your claims. The marks which were
intended for
your measure have gone the same way into relevance and relief, and the
sooner masks have blended out the basket on the wall with my heart in
it.
Even the sheetrock plenitude is unannounced, yet here within the hour
and its
manufacture there is some allowance for error which is pardoned, elicited
forward into the realm of the undiscovered.

Still
you'd seem more linear than misty, a testament to the accuracy of the
forms themselves, where one angle delimits its opposite on the scheme
of
plenty. Here are the sums and pallets, a shrewd container in the
signing of
the terms for the exchange of plates and flagons, a disregard for the
penetrable
and the music it allows to flow forth in the dance of the hours.
Fortunes are
made in the distancing of the forms. The sea-swell rips forward
into the
legends it incorporates beyond time or season. The full fulfills.
And beyond
the swing of the opposites back and forth, a suggestion begins to be
seen like a
version, a complication and a resolution which begins again in the heart's
plenty.